Canto X
The Fourth Heaven, or that of the Sun, where are seen the spirits of theologians and fathers of the Church—St. Thomas Aquinas.
Looking into his Son with all the Love Which each of them eternally breathes forth, The Primal and unutterable Power Whate’er before the mind or eye revolves With so much order made, there can be none Who this beholds without enjoying Him. Lift up then, Reader, to the lofty wheels With me thy vision straight unto that part Where the one motion on the other strikes,
And there begin to contemplate with joy That Master’s art, who in himself so loves it That never doth his eye depart therefrom. Behold how from that point goes branching off The oblique circle, which conveys the planets, To satisfy the world that calls upon them; And if their pathway were not thus inflected, Much virtue in the heavens would be in vain, And almost every power below here dead.
If from the straight line distant more or less Were the departure, much would wanting be Above and underneath of mundane order. Remain now, Reader, still upon thy bench, In thought pursuing that which is foretasted, If thou wouldst jocund be instead of weary. I’ve set before thee; henceforth feed thyself, For to itself diverteth all my care That theme whereof I have been made the scribe.
The greatest of the ministers of nature, Who with the power of heaven the world imprints And measures with his light the time for us, With that part which above is called to mind Conjoined, along the spirals was revolving, Where each time earlier he presents himself; And I was with him; but of the ascending I was not conscious, saving as a man Of a first thought is conscious ere it come;
And Beatrice, she who is seen to pass From good to better, and so suddenly That not by time her action is expressed, How lucent in herself must she have been! And what was in the sun, wherein I entered, Apparent not by color but by light, I, though I call on genius, art, and practice, Cannot so tell that it could be imagined; Believe one can, and let him long to see it.
And if our fantasies too lowly are For altitude so great, it is no marvel, Since o’er the sun was never eye could go. Such in this place was the fourth family Of the high Father, who forever sates it, Showing how he breathes forth and how begets. And Beatrice began: “Give thanks, give thanks Unto the Sun of Angels, who to this Sensible one has raised thee by his grace!”
Never was heart of mortal so disposed To worship, nor to give itself to God With all its gratitude was it so ready, As at those words did I myself become; And all my love was so absorbed in Him, That in oblivion Beatrice was eclipsed. Nor this displeased her; but she smiled at it So that the splendor of her laughing eyes My single mind on many things divided.
Lights many saw I, vivid and triumphant, Make us a centre and themselves a circle, More sweet in voice than luminous in aspect. Thus girt about the daughter of Latona We sometimes see, when pregnant is the air, So that it holds the thread which makes her zone. Within the court of Heaven, whence I return, Are many jewels found, so fair and precious They cannot be transported from the realm;
And of them was the singing of those lights. Who takes not wings that he may fly up thither, The tidings thence may from the dumb await! As soon as singing thus those burning suns Had round about us whirled themselves three times, Like unto stars neighboring the steadfast poles, Ladies they seemed, not from the dance released, But who stop short, in silence listening Till they have gathered the new melody.
And within one I heard beginning: “When The radiance of grace, by which is kindled True love, and which thereafter grows by loving, Within thee multiplied is so resplendent That it conducts thee upward by that stair, Where without reascending none descends, Who should deny the wine out of his vial Unto thy thirst, in liberty were not Except as water which descends not seaward.
Fain wouldst thou know with what plants is enflowered This garland that encircles with delight The Lady fair who makes thee strong for heaven. Of the lambs was I of the holy flock Which Dominic conducteth by a road Where well one fattens if he strayeth not. He who is nearest to me on the right My brother and master was; and he Albertus Is of Cologne, I Thomas of Aquinum.
If thou of all the others wouldst be certain, Follow behind my speaking with thy sight Upward along the blessed garland turning. That next effulgence issues from the smile Of Gratian, who assisted both the courts In such wise that it pleased in Paradise. The other which near by adorns our choir That Peter was who, e’en as the poor widow, Offered his treasure unto Holy Church.
The fifth light, that among us is the fairest, Breathes forth from such a love, that all the world Below is greedy to learn tidings of it. Within it is the lofty mind, where knowledge So deep was put, that, if the true be true, To see so much there never rose a second. Thou seest next the lustre of that taper, Which in the flesh below looked most within The angelic nature and its ministry.
Within that other little light is smiling The advocate of the Christian centuries, Out of whose rhetoric Augustine was furnished. Now if thou trainest thy mind’s eye along From light to light pursuant of my praise, With thirst already of the eighth thou waitest. By seeing every good therein exults The sainted soul, which the fallacious world Makes manifest to him who listeneth well;
The body whence ’twas hunted forth is lying Down in Cieldauro, and from martyrdom And banishment it came unto this peace. See farther onward flame the burning breath Of Isidore, of Beda, and of Richard Who was in contemplation more than man. This, whence to me returneth thy regard, The light is of a spirit unto whom In his grave meditations death seemed slow.
It is the light eternal of Sigier, Who, reading lectures in the Street of Straw, Did syllogize invidious verities.” Then, as a horologe that calleth us What time the Bride of God is rising up With matins to her Spouse that he may love her, Wherein one part the other draws and urges, Ting! ting! resounding with so sweet a note, That swells with love the spirit well disposed,
Thus I beheld the glorious wheel move round, And render voice to voice, in modulation And sweetness that can not be comprehended, Excepting there where joy is made eternal.